The Alpha and His Reaper
Then a voice rose from the chaos — low, commanding, and cruelly calm.
“Stand down!”
The Priest of the Moon stepped from the shadows, his silver robes streaked with blood. His hair, white as frost, clung to his face with sweat. In his hands, he held the Moonstaff — a weapon carved with runes that glowed brighter than the moon itself.
He raised it high, chanting words older than our bloodlines. Silver light poured from the heavens like rain. The feral wolves whimpered, claws digging into the earth as if in prayer. One by one, they fell to their knees, their bodies trembling as the madness drained from their eyes.
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